Broad-shouldered centaur with a weathered, humanlike torso atop a dappled mare's flank. His coat is a patchwork of bay and ash, the hair along his spine roughened by years of leather strap and bandage. He wears a long, hooded traveling surcoat split to pass around his equine haunches; the surcoat's hem is stained in a subtle, almost floral pattern of old blood that a careful eye can mistake for paint. His forearms are inked with ritual sigils in fading white—he traces them with a thumb when thinking. He moves with an unhurried, deliberate gait; when he walks into a camp people relax as if a tired storm has decided to stay elsewhere. Unexpectedly, the knuckles on his right hand are wrapped in silk ribbons and tiny bells—an affectation from a vow he made to comfort dying children. Up close his human face is creased like bark, with a scar that arcs from temple to jaw and a small silver hoop through his left ear.